


with the volume down

by dhils



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Masturbation, cale is a camboy! :), ur side hustle isnt rly a side hustle if its not a cam show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22128619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhils/pseuds/dhils
Summary: “The vibrator Cale had, the little pink thing? It goes off every time he gets a tip.” JT’s gaze doesn’t waver, but Nate finds it impossible to meet his eyes. It doesn’t feel appropriate. “Apparently it’s. Intense.”“Oh,” he says, and swallows. “Oh, wow.”“Yeah.” JT grins, like this is amusing to him. “Josty said he left him a couple tips, just to hear him scream.”
Relationships: Nathan MacKinnon/Cale Makar
Comments: 19
Kudos: 300
Collections: The Sin Bin: A Hockey RPF Kink Meme





	with the volume down

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a [sin bin prompt](https://thesinbin.dreamwidth.org/3790.html?thread=5312462#cmt5312462) that was so so powerful it just abt forced me to write this and i am! very thankful!
> 
> the horny energy that comes frm the avs and the avs alone was powerful enough to fuel this entire fic n i would like to formally thank each n every one of them
> 
> title is frm powerslide by ryan beatty

It’s over dinner that Cale mentions it for the first time.

“I finally paid off my textbooks,” he says, offhandedly. “Like, with money to spare. It feels kind of surreal.” 

Nate raises his eyebrows at him, pretends to act surprised that Cale, who spends all of his free time taking his _business_ major as seriously as possible, is making bank.

“Weren’t you, like, on Shark Tank?” He asks.

“Shut up, I wish,” Cale admits, because of course he does. Because he’s a stereotype. 

He picks at his salad, something filled to the brim with leafy greens, and Nate watches his hands. He likes how slim his fingers are, knobby at the knuckles where the skin is dusted in pink. There are parts of Cale that are so, so delicate. 

When their bill comes, the waitress sets it facedown in front of Nate with a tired smile. Her features are wrought with thin lines, stress splintering over her skin. She’s been running from table to table all night, Nate tries to thank her as kindly as he can. 

When he reaches for the bill, Cale swipes it out from in front of him. 

“I got this,” he insists. “You paid last time.”

“Wow.” Nate laughs, and he feels it in his chest. “I like New Cale.”

Nate spends a very small part of his day hanging around his teammates, because he doesn’t think he could survive much more than that. He loves them, but in increments.

He’s watching Sam argue about something with Mikko, the hand gestures he’s making taking up all the space between the two of them. Mikko says something and his face scrunches up in disgust. It’s something straight out of an animated film.

A few of the guys are off to the side playing pool and it isn’t going well. If their distant shouting is anything to go by. 

“You’re so goddamn antisocial without Cale around,” Andre says from next to him. 

“I am not,” he protests, shielding his boredom behind the rim of his glass. The beer he’s been babysitting is practically tasteless, but it gets the job done. “I don’t even know why I came, I didn’t realize this was an optional event.” 

He glances around their table. Cale’s lack of presence doesn’t leave as big of a mark as Josty’s, who never stops talking when he’s around the right people, but Nate still feels it. 

“Well, Josty said he’s gotta study for,” Andre waves a hand, “probably something important, I tuned him out.”

Nate tries not to laugh because he’s trying to better himself as a person, but a smile still manages to crack his lips. “That happens a lot, doesn’t it?” 

Andre laughs and when he looks like he’s about to add something else, Nate hears JT gasp from across him. 

He presses his phone down against the table and looks like he’s just seen a ghost. “What the fuck,” he says, to absolutely no one. Then, “Hey, guys, just wondering—what the _fuck_.” 

“Look, man, I know you never learned your ABC’s, but I really need you to work with us here,” Nate says, his eyebrows bumping together. 

“Shut up, shut up, oh my god.” JT scrubs a hand over his face.

This time it’s Mikko who complains, “Is this supposed to be a conversation between just yourself?” 

“Okay, okay, let me just.” JT pauses, a short breath slipping out past his lips. “Where is Cale.” 

It doesn’t sound like a question. Not the way JT says it. It comes out direct, like he’s stating something. 

“His friend from juniors is in town,” Sam answers, almost automatically. “I didn’t get a name, is he—is he okay?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, so okay.” JT picks his phone up again, staring down at the screen. The silence weighing down on them is impossibly heavy. “So, um. How many of you knew Cale was a cam boy?” 

Nate nearly coughs up the beer he’s sipping.

Andre hoots, laughing brightly. “You’re shitting me!” 

It’s Josty who finds out. Because Josty’s version of studying is being perpetually horny online and Nate can’t really blame him, but. 

When JT shows him the short recorded clip he’d been sent, Nate can feel his pulse burning hot in his ears. He thinks half the blood in his body might immediately jump to his cheeks.

It’s Cale. The same Cale Nate has gotten so very close to over the years. The same Cale who plays hockey like it’s all he knows. The same Cale that picked up their bill in the restaurant the other day. 

Nate feels the air go out of the room. 

It’s _Cale_. His legs are trembling, one of them braced against the wall next to his bed. There’s a hand wrapped around his dick and it looks tight, right above the vibrator he has plugged into his ass. It’s pink, with a small heart at the base of it. 

In the background, there’s a soft ding. A tip. 

Cale parts his lips and the moan he lets out isn’t all that loud, not with how safely low JT’s keeping the volume on his phone, but what Nate does hear sounds lewd. It sounds like Cale, but not in a way Nate has ever heard him. 

The clip freezes when it ends, and JT looks towards him to gauge his reaction. Nate wants to raise a hand to his face and hide because he knows exactly how red he can get. Especially here, like this. Embarrassment turning ugly beneath his skin.

JT doesn’t prod at any of that, though. Instead, he just laughs, almost disbelieving. “I know. I fucking _know_ ,” he says, powering off his phone. “Josty said it was something—an _Ohmibod_ he was using?”

Nate blinks owlishly at him. “A what?” 

“The vibrator Cale had, the little pink thing? It goes off every time he gets a tip.” JT’s gaze doesn’t waver, but Nate finds it impossible to meet his eyes. It doesn’t feel appropriate. “Apparently it’s. Intense.”

“Oh,” he says, and swallows. “Oh, wow.” 

“Yeah.” JT grins, like this is amusing to him. “Josty said he left him a couple tips, just to hear him scream.” 

The next time Nate sees Cale is in the locker room. 

And Nate isn’t the type to be ashamed in the room, he doesn’t have anything to be ashamed about, but today he keeps his head down. He changes into his gear quickly and methodically. He doesn’t speak to anyone.

The one time he does look up is to grab his helmet and when he accidentally meets Cale’s eyes, he feels himself go cold 

Cale smiles at him the way someone who doesn’t know their secret is out would smile. Cale smiles beautifully and kindly and Nate has no choice but to return it. Unevenly and panicked. 

When he turns back to his helmet, he catches a look from Mikko from the corner of his eyes. 

Mikko’s usually completely stoned over before a game, prepared for absolutely anything and unwilling to waste his time. But today, he gives Nate this little nod and a smile that curls the ends of his lips devilishly. He jerks his thumb in Josty’s direction and mouths, _talk to him_ , in a way that doesn’t do much to quell Nate’s nerves

Nate swallows his pride and decides to wait. Wait until after the game, or maybe tomorrow. Even the next decade sounds comfortably distant.

“Nate,” Josty calls, just barely catching him before he can make a break for the showers. 

Nate sucks in a breath. “Hey, uh, hi,” he fumbles awkwardly, tripping over his words. 

Josty doesn’t look impressed, not that it’s easy to keep his attention anyways. “FaceTime me tonight, a couple of the guys got something planned.”

“What’s up?” Nate finds himself asking. And then, without a moment between, “And, like, who?” 

“Just JT, Andre, and Mikko.” He counts the names off on his fingers. “Sam’s a maybe, but that’s only because he’s trying to act like he’s morally superior to the rest of us. I‘m not convinced.” 

Nate doesn’t say anything, because he already feels anxious, unsteady warmth swaying in his stomach.

“We’re getting on Cale’s stream and tipping the shit out of it, just gonna blow it up, drive him crazy,” Josty explains, his voice dropping just enough that their conversation is hushed. “I asked him if he can chill tonight and he told me he was busy. Like I don’t know what he means.” 

Nate can feel his mouth go dry, his tongue scratching against the roof of his mouth like sandpaper. “I think it means he’s busy.”

“Right.” Josty’s gaze drifts over Nate’s shoulder. “So, are you game or not?” 

“I—“

“C’mon, it’ll be funny. You won’t regret it,” he insists.

Which. Nate doubts both those things entirely. But he nods his head anyways, says, “Yeah, I’m. I’m down.”

It earns him an excited little cheer from Josty, and the hand that settles delicately on his shoulder directly afterwards is warm. Friendly.

It’s Cale. His hair is wet, dripping into his eyes. Everything Nate could possibly say to him gets stuck in his throat. 

“You gotta show me how to do that move you pulled third period,” Cale says, his mouth a soft curve against rosey skin. “Best hands on the team. Not even a competition.”

When Nate looks towards Josty, he’s gone. 

“Yeah,” Nate manages to choke out. “Of course.” 

There’s really no easy way to come to terms with the fact that Nate’s only doing this because he wants to see Cale again. Not because he thinks it’ll be funny, or entertaining, but because he wants to _look_. And the desire ripples from deep inside his chest, where the pull of his want, the way it tugs brutally at him, is impossible to ignore. 

When Josty connects him to the call, he sees JT lying on the couch flicking through his phone. Nate can’t find it in himself to be surprised that they’re together for this. 

One of the screens is empty. The other one belongs to Mikko, who’s lazily writing something out in a notebook.

“You know, I didn’t think you were actually going to pick up,” Josty admits, glancing behind himself to look at JT. “We were gonna start making bets.” 

“He’s not lying,” JT adds, very poorly biting back the grin playing at his mouth. 

Nate leans back against the headboard of his bed and feels helpless. “That’s because you’re all impossible to hang out with.” 

His eyes track over towards Andre filling out the empty screen when he strolls back into frame, clutching the neck of a bottle. The liquid is clear like water, but Nate can’t quite make out the label. 

”That doesn’t include me, obviously,” he says, and Nate groans.

Nate considers getting up to grab a drink for himself because he knows he can’t do this sober. Not without saying something stupid. 

He decides not to.

Josty sends them all a link through a group chat, followed by devil faced emojis and a sly, _hope u saved up_

The call ended a while back, after Josty explained a few things to them, laying out rules and telling them to be careful with what they say in the chat. He looked serious, maybe for the first time in his life. Nate doesn’t know why it’s taken him this long to realize that Josty’s only good at being horny. 

When he slots the link into the search bar on his laptop, he can’t help that his hands tremble. Or that, with each second that the circle buffers in the center of his screen, he considers backing out entirely. 

A message dings on his phone and it makes him jump in the dreary silence of his room. 

It’s something from Mikko, but Nate doesn’t bother reading it. Instead, he drags his eyes back to the laptop screen. He has to make an account with the site before he can click through, and Nate does it in record time. 

He tries to set his username as something obscure, something that won’t link back to him. It’s a process. The username, then filling in his email address, his phone number, his credit card information. Because this is a _real_ thing Nate is doing and he’s going to wake up tomorrow with regret coiling in his gut. 

But right now all he can really do is focus on verifying his email and frantically trying to convince Mikko not to set his username as _MacAttack69_. 

When he gets everything out of the way, Nate’s left on Cale’s profile page, where the little green dot shining bright on the screen is insisting he’s online. Urging Nate to click through.

He swallows a deep breath and picks up his phone, because Nate has never been great at facing things head on.

It’s like porn. 

Or, well, it is porn, but it’s also Cale.

Nate hasn’t been hiding far enough beneath a rock to say he’s never watched porn. He’s 24, he has needs, and he has a lot of time on his hands when he’s not living his own life. So, this is expected. Nate just doesn’t know how to handle that this is what he’s supposed to expect.

Cale’s pressed into the back of his couch, his flush stretching down past his cheeks, his neck, blooming over his chest. It’s a lot of skin.

He’s using that same pink vibrator. 

The camera quality is clear enough that Nate can see the quiver of his bottom lip as he catches it beneath his teeth. He can’t help but follow the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the shallow movement of his shoulder, the way his legs are spread for the camera. Cale has his fingers circled around the head of his dick, slowly dragging them up and down, up and down. It’s too much to take in at once.

He drops the arm he had thrown over his eyes to look at the camera and that’s when Nate gets a good look at him. Too good, maybe. 

Nate doesn’t know what it means that it’s the look from Cale that really gets him there. The big heavy eyes, the way his mouth goes slack, just how pretty he looks. That’s when Nate can feel his dick filling out against his sweatpants, the friction from his boxers not doing him any favours. It’s too soft, featherlight and just barely there if he isn’t thinking about it. 

_im going broke_ , pops up on his phone from Josty. Because it’s Josty. And Nate forces himself to stare at the notification just long enough to still the erratic pace of his heart banging at his ribs. 

He goes to text something back, innocuous and calm, but the muted chime of a tip catches his attention first. It’s stark against everything else, easily recognizable, and the little breath that it punches out of Cale is so soft and so sweet and. 

Nate tips him a dollar. Just to hear it again. It’s his moment of weakness, sure, but he has enough willpower to stop himself from bringing a hand to the front of his sweats. He doesn’t touch himself, curling his fingers into his bedsheets. 

He keeps watching him because he doesn’t know how to stop. Another bell goes off. Another one. Cale’s brows jolt together and he makes a helpless noise, his hand stilling on his dick. His grip still looks sturdy, tight, but he’s not moving. 

At the next chime, his hips cant up into his fist and he makes a strained noise, throwing his head back. “Fuck,” he says, barely forming the word on his tongue before there’s another ding. 

Nate’s focus is zeroed in on how slick his dick is, pushing past his fingers when his hips twitch up again. Cale makes a face like he can’t handle it, his mouth hanging open. It’s bitten red and Nate wishes he could touch, just to brush his fingers against it. 

For the next few moments, the chimes all come in rapid succession, and his phone buzzes once, twice. Nate doesn’t know how to divide his focus enough that he can at least act like he’s okay, that he can call himself a saint and be able to tear his eyes away. 

But Cale squirms on screen, and each time he moans, Nate can feel flames skitter across his skin. 

Cale’s toes curl and he cries out, “Oh, god.” 

His eyes glaze over, and the next chime gets his hand moving again. His breaths are shallow and loud, like he’s just getting off the ice after playing a full period. And when Nate thinks about how he’s seen Cale exactly like this on the bench, with his head in his hands while he desperately chases his breath, it makes his face burn. 

His phone goes off.

His laptop chimes.

Nate brings a hand to the front of his sweats and presses down just enough to relieve some of the pressure. It’s not enough. It barely comes close. 

Part of Nate just wants to shove down his sweats and get himself off to the sporadic way Cale fists his dick, meeting each downstroke with his hips. Or the noises that keep dripping past his lips, like he doesn’t know how to control it. Because he _can’t_ control it.

Nate’s pride dies by the time he’s pushing a hand past his boxers. The relief of finally wrapping his fingers around himself is too much to let go.

The next ding comes from Nate, tipping him again. 

And there’s something so addicting about the way it makes Cale roll his eyes towards the ceiling, moaning out something incomprehensible. His legs are shivering under his weight and he digs his fingers into the muscles on his thigh, pulling it further back towards his shoulder for the camera. 

Nate knows he’s flexible. He plays hockey, he’s always been flexible, but the bubble of arousal deep in his gut is unbearable when he does it.

It has always amazed Nate, how ready Cale is to please, but it’s so new in this context. Where Cale is on his laptop screen, smearing precome along the length of his dick, fucking into his fist, making a mess of himself. He’s putting on a show, Nate has to remind himself. He knows people are watching, he knows what this does for them. He’s in the spotlight and he’s performing. 

He’s gorgeous like this and he knows it. 

The next chime is followed by two more, then a third, and they’re one after the other, quick, quick, quick. 

Cale’s eyes are wet, shiny underneath the light, and he loses the grip on his leg. 

Nate looks and he keeps looking, painfully aware of the hand he’s keeping on his own dick. He lets himself trail his fingers up the shaft once, but at the next chime, Nate gives up trying to maintain his dignity. He doesn’t know how much longer he can survive like this. 

Cale gets another tip and he chokes out a string of curses. When he pulls his fingers away from himself, thin strings of precome stretch between his hand and his dick, snapping when he pulls it up towards himself. 

For a moment, Nate thinks he’s going to smear it off against his stomach, or against his nice couch. 

But the next chime, Cale brings two fingers to his mouth and slides them past his lips. He makes a short muffled sound against them, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking.

Nate breathes in deep, his eyes glued to the screen. 

When Cale pops the fingers out of his mouth, he brings them back down to his dick. He strokes himself, twisting once his hand as he brings it up towards the head, and Nate tips him. 

It pulls a gasp out of Cale, airy and fragile as it cracks into a few quick breaths, each one loud, heavy. His gaze is heated when he looks into the camera, and the next tip isn’t from Nate, but the one after it is. 

Cale’s hand on his dick is quick, picking up its pace with each stroke. His tongue darts out over his lips and Nate’s fixed on watching his mouth. Watching as he makes those pretty noises. Watching each scrape of his teeth against his bottom lip, the way he keeps prodding it with his tongue. 

The next chime gets him to scream out. It happens over and over, until one of Cale’s hands is scratching into the fabric of his couch, trying to steady himself. Tears gather at the very corners of his eyes, already threatening to spill. 

When he snaps them shut, the droplets that leak out over his cheeks roll gracefully down his skin. They catch the light of the lamp in his room, shimmering. 

Nate presses his thumb to the vein on the underside of his dick, keeping each one of his strokes quick and easy. They get faster the more he forgets where he is. The more he ignores the fussing voice at the back of his head, because he knows what he wants. 

He’s been hearing his phone buzz, but he hasn’t found it in himself to look at it. Even now, he keeps a hand on himself and tunes everything else out.

Cale makes this pleading sound, strangled in his throat, at the very same time as the next chime. His skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat, blending with the teardrop that flicks off his jaw. The chimes keep streaming in with fervour, dragging every ounce of energy from him. The divot between his collarbones is wet enough that it shines. 

Cale pushes a hand through his hair, grinding up into his hand, and Nate is so sickeningly enraptured by him. 

Nate doesn’t still the movement of his hand on his dick, even as he feels the pressure of heat building in his abdomen, red hot. Instead, he finally pushes his sweats down, the hem of his boxers snapping hard against his thighs. 

When he comes, he bites down on his lip and rides it out to the sound of Cale on his laptop, still making desperate noises, still flushed beautifully, still shaking under the gaze of the camera. 

Nate makes a mess of his shirt and regrettably peels it off, dropping it to the floor next to him.

It takes a moment for the embarrassment to dawn on him. Or just the _weight_ of the situation. Nate’s pulse is in his ears when he snaps his laptop shut and shoves it to the foot of his bed. The room wobbles underneath him.

His phone vibrates. He can’t bring himself to look at it.

Nate ties his skates up three times at practice the next morning. He tapes his stick two times over. He misses the net on four open shots. When they get bag skated, he huffs out a sigh of relief because another few moments on the ice means not having to speak to anyone. At least not about things he doesn’t know how to discuss. 

Andre sits down next to him in the locker room, while Nate’s stuck staring at his helmet with his breath caught uncomfortably in his lungs. 

He doesn’t notice him. Not until Andre clears his throat and says, “you didn’t back out last night.” It’s sharp and accusatory.

Nate barely has it in him to keep from jolting at that. When he looks towards Andre, he nearly forgets how to speak.

“What?” He croaks, his voice rough. 

“Josty said you chickened out.” The look Andre is giving him is critical. It makes Nate feel exposed. “But that’s not true. Am I right?” 

Nate keeps his eyes on his hands, trying to focus on slowing the thoughts banging around the inside of his head. “Look,” he starts, but he doesn’t know where to take it. 

“If you talk to Cale,” Andre says, setting a hand on Nate’s shoulder. “If you tell him it was Josty’s idea, the worst thing that happens is he kicks his ass. But if you don’t talk to him, which I know sounds real good right now, the worst thing that happens is you sit around wondering what could’ve been.” 

“Okay,” Nate says, mostly to himself. “I just—okay.”

He watches Andre walk off to his locker and feels the weight of all his decisions drag him down. 

Cale is in the hallway with a hand in his hoodie pocket. He’s got his other one clutching his phone, typing something out.

Nate doesn’t think he’s waiting for anyone, but he still feels like he’s intruding when he approaches him. They’re friends, he knows that, but somehow all of it still fades when Nate’s head isn’t on right. 

“Hey,” he offers weakly, and when Cale looks up at him, his smile is bright. Everything about him is always so bright. 

“Hey.” Cale’s eyes dart down the hall, then back to Nate. “Please don’t tell me you’re lost.” He’s laughing, because Cale laughs at his own jokes, and Cale’s cheeks go pink whenever he’s happy, and Nate can’t forget the way it feels whenever Cale looks at him with those same heavy eyes. Because Nate is gone. He’s so far gone on everything about him. 

“I’m,” he says, and when his voice cracks, he barely has it in him to try again. “I want to talk to you, actually. It’s probably important.” 

“More important than you finding your way back home?” Cale pouts at him, but the quirk of his lips beneath it isn’t very well hidden. 

Nate wants to tell him nothing is as important as getting this off his chest, but he doesn’t. Because he’s not sure if he wants to try and freak Cale out. That wouldn’t be a very good course of action to take.

“You could probably say that,” he admits, and hears his voice going thin. “And. We do not have to talk about this, obviously. Not if you don’t want to, because I’d never want you to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, right? That I would never want to—“

“How long does this go on.” 

Nate can feel the tips of his ears go hot. He brings a hand to the back of his neck and the skin there simmers beneath his fingertips. “Not much longer, promise.” 

Cale groans and rolls his eyes. It’s still fond, still Cale. “What are we talking about?”

“Your, um.” Nate stops to mull it over for a moment. “Your side job?” 

Cale tilts his head to one side, just barely. “What are you talking about?” He asks, before anything clicks. 

It does click, though. It clicks half a second later, when his eyes go wide and he slaps a hand to his mouth. “Oh my god, what _are_ you talking about?“

“It’s not. It’s not a huge deal, like, I understand. I get it. College is expensive, we can’t control that,” Nate rushes out, and he’s trying to gauge the emotions scattered across Cale’s face, but they’re a mess. 

“I knew someone would find out someday, but I,” he pauses, staring down at his shoes. “I don’t know. I just never expected it to actually happen. Like, the internet is a huge place, I just thought: what are the chances?” 

Nate nods his head, trying to be understanding. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I never thought I’d find out about this either.”

Cale screws his mouth to the side. He’s still not looking entirely at Nate. He’s staring at his chest, but he won’t meet his eyes. “Does anyone else know?” He asks. “No, wait, who else knows.” 

Nate opens his mouth and freezes, because he was going to try and lay this on as gently as he could. But Cale's making a face like he can see right through him, like he knows what Nate did. 

And Nate says, “like, half the team,” as sincerely as he possibly can. He doesn’t think he gets to be calm in this situation, but if it does anything to help Cale, it’s okay. 

“Half the team,” Cale echoes, horrified.

“Maybe less.” 

“That doesn’t make it any better.” When Cale meets his eyes, he just shakes his head. “Like, okay, it’s not anything you haven’t seen in the locker room, right? It’s not that bad?“

Nate lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know what kind of freaky shit you think goes on in the locker room.”

Cale crosses his arms and stares back at him for a long moment, silent. It looks like a challenge. 

“It’s not anything I haven’t seen before, um, now,” Nate clarifies. “I wasn’t planning on looking ever again, just that one time. It’s—curiosity. That’s all.”

“You were curious.” Cale looks amused, Nate would think, if it wasn’t for the situation. “Curious about what?” 

“Listen, I respect your boundaries,” he insists. “I wouldn’t do it again.”

“Unless I wanted you to," Cale says.

“What?”

“You said, earlier. You don’t want me to do anything I don’t want to, right? What if I didn’t wanna put on a show without knowing you were watching?” Cale asks unashamedly. His cheeks are still rosey, they always are, but he doesn’t sound shy. Nate wouldn’t expect any less. 

Nate argues, “You’re not getting more money out of me.” Because he still isn’t registering a lot of this. 

Except, “I’m not a hooker,” Cale says. “I wouldn’t make you pay if it was in person. Not if we both agreed to it.” 

“Oh,” Nate says, blinking. 

Cale’s gaze is unwavering and he looks like he knows exactly what he wants. “I’d say you should take me to dinner first, but we get a lot of dinners.” 

Nate can feel a small smile toying with the corners of his lips. “I’d still like to get more of those dinners. If that’s okay with you,” he says, because he knows what he wants, too. 

Cale laughs and sways into Nate’s space. “Yeah,” he says, his eyes locked onto his mouth. His smile. “I like the sound of that.”


End file.
